The morning’s song

At 8:30 every weekday morning, the house is filled with the squawks and squeals of the clarinet, the plaintive plucking and moaning of the violin. My sons are learning to make music, a plodding and painful process that I might not survive.

The clarinet was mine when I was 12. It’s been passed down to my three sisters, my daughter and now Max. He plays it loud, really loud. The sound explodes out of the bell with a force that sends me scurrying for the silence of the basement. The violins are loans — one from a neighbor, the other from a local shop. Someone once told me that the sound of the violin most resembles the human voice, and Sam’s version of “Mary had a Little Lamb” sounds like mourners at a funeral wake.

At 8:45, instruments are shoved pack into cases, backpacks are slung over shoulders and my two older sons throw me kisses and head for school. As I shut the door, I sigh and smile, happy with the sound of silence.

So sweet! (fortunately, I can't hear sound from YouTube on my computer for some reason)…I have to say I was HUGELY relieved when my older son's interest in playing violin petered out before I got around to looking into lessons. Now he plays the guitar, and I think an inexpertly played guitar is much easier on the ears than an inexpertly played violin. But how wonderful it will be when they're all fiddling (and clarineting) beautifully in a few years!